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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26625220">for the hunger (and nothing less)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crudesco/pseuds/Crudesco'>Crudesco</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>iron bones &amp; smoke feathers [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Angst, Cooking, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family Fluff, Fluff, Food, How Do I Tag, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Humor, Identity Issues, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:53:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,956</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26625220</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crudesco/pseuds/Crudesco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At the time, Tony wasn’t totally convinced that the absolute meltdown he had had (according to Pepper at least, Tony wouldn’t go quite so far as to call it a meltdown) and the resulting, slapped-together kitchen staff they had put together in a <i>week</i> would be anything more than a temporary stopgap that would last them through the next few months.</p><p>It takes him a few months to realize that they have something special together, that there’s a particular kind of magic in their kitchen and that cooking together feels as natural as <i>breathing</i>.</p><p>It takes him about a year to realize that it’s the best thing that could have ever happened to him, and that together they can take Ferrum to new heights that Howard could have never even imagined.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton &amp; Natasha Romanov, James "Rhodey" Rhodes &amp; Tony Stark, Loki &amp; Thor (Marvel), Pepper Potts &amp; Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>iron bones &amp; smoke feathers [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>for the hunger (and nothing less)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Tony was younger, he used to love going to the pool and seeing how long he could hold his breath underwater, sinking down until his feet touched the cool concrete bottom. The water had rushed past his ears and the growing pressure had made everything feel like he was collapsing inwards on himself.</p><p>Tony feels like that now, suspended in time and drifting, unanchored. </p><p>He has vague memories of gathering the restaurant staff together for a team meeting and breaking the news that Ferrum had lost its Michelin star, but whenever he tries to recall anything specific, he almost feels like he’s viewing everything from behind thickly frosted glass.</p><p>Time goes on, the days blurring together.</p><p>He knows Pepper is concerned about him, can feel it through her sideways glances when she thinks he’s not looking, her furrowed brow when she catches sight of him. And to be fair, his goatee is quickly progressing from a well-groomed fashion statement to something that would soon require a beard net, but honestly he’s doing just <i>fine</i>. He’s still showing up to work and everything, if only for the reason that he’s certain Pepper would hunt him down and unashamedly drag him there if he didn’t.</p><p>And if he maybe stops staying after hours to try out any of his novel culinary ideas, well that’s just because he hasn’t <i>had</i> any really. Tony’s brain had always felt like an endless well, chewing over multiple half-formed menu and dish concepts at a time, chasing down flavor combinations that shouldn’t work... in <i>theory</i>, at least. Not that that had ever stopped him.</p><p>Except now, it kind of had. If before he had been firing on all cylinders, now well, he wouldn’t go so far as to say that his spark plugs were defective or anything, but he could maybe, potentially, possibly be in need of a tune-up. It was like those Japanese knife sharpening videos he likes to watch in his spare time for the ASMR and quality knife porn. In this case, he was the knife that needed some slight sharpening.</p><p>That was only a minor issue anyways, because in the end, Tony is doing fine and the restaurant is doing fine. He’s just in a bit of an inspiration dry spell at the moment, that’s all. Ferrum is still pulling in around a hundred covers a night, give or take, even after the slight dip in business they were seeing after the Michelin Guide had come out for this year. Clearly their food was still up to par for their diners to keep coming back, despite what the culinary world’s equivalent of gossip rags harped on about, citing that Ferrum’s food was <i>faded echoes of what it once was</i> and being <i>long past its era of excellence</i>. What an absolute waste of the paper it had been printed on.</p><p>The point is, Tony knows this menu and he <i>knows</i> it’s perfectly balanced. It’s just daring enough to be exciting but the culinary techniques used are rooted in textbook French cooking, executed flawlessly to perfection. If there’s one lesson that Howard had hammered into his brain, it’s the importance of having a strong base, one that had weathered and dominated the professional cooking world for over several hundred years. <i>Like iron</i>, he had said, opening Ferrum with all of his typical self-assuredness.</p><p>Frankly, Tony had always wanted to point out that iron was actually pretty damn soft in its purest form. He’s not sure why he hadn’t honestly, since he’s not exactly known for showing restraint. Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t be in this situation where he had the <i>luck</i> of being set to gain ownership of the restaurant. And hadn’t that just been such a wonderful fucking surprise for both him and Obie to find out at the reading of Howard’s will.</p><p>Even now, Tony’s not sure what Howard was thinking, setting his practically estranged son as his successor. If anything, he would’ve expected ownership to go to Obie. It was practically a no-brainer for him, given how involved his father’s business partner had been with the restaurant. Everyone had expected it.</p><p>He can still remember Obie’s face twisting first in confusion, then anger, before settling on something that made him look vaguely constipated. Looking back, the memory of Obie’s expression demonstrating that the Botox hadn’t been enough to remove the involuntary twitching of his normally impassive face was incredibly funny. At the time though, he hadn’t been laughing. No one was.</p><p>It was so clearly a recipe for disaster, placing such a young chef who was still wet behind his ears, who hadn’t even gone to culinary school, as head chef of a Michelin restaurant. It was unheard of, and for good reason. Howard’s team was too well-trained to directly speak out against their new head chef, but Tony would just be fooling himself if he thought they had an ounce of respect for him.</p><p>It all culminates one day when Tony’s nerves, already strung tight by just a few too many sleepless nights and triple shots of espresso, snap at yet another poorly muffled laugh and side glance his way from his sous and boucher.</p><p>“What was that,” he asks sharply, setting down his kitchen towel with a slap on the counter.</p><p>The laughter cuts off abruptly.</p><p>“Nothing, chef,” Quentin says stiffly, smirk wiped off his face.</p><p>“No, it sure sounds like it was something funny. I’d love to know what you both were talking about just now,” Tony presses, fixing his gaze on the two men. “Go on Quentin, tell us. I’m sure we’d <i>all</i> love to hear this.” Tony makes a broad sweeping gesture around the room without looking away from them.</p><p>When it doesn’t seem like Quentin is willing to say anything, Tony turns to the other man. “William? Going to let us in on the joke?”</p><p>“Chef,” William says for lack of a better response. Both men shift uncomfortably.</p><p>“I’m still waiting,” Tony drums his fingers against his crossed arms impatiently, staring them down.</p><p>Quentin’s face turns an ugly red as the room falls silent, everyone’s attention turning towards them. Tony’s not surprised at Quentin’s resulting outburst. He always had been a bit of an egotistical, prideful hardass. Not that Tony’s really one to throw stones here. Glass houses and all that.</p><p>“You’re waiting huh? I’m still waiting too,” Quentin sneers, “for you to actually cook something worth a damn. Sure looks like your old man’s culinary skills weren’t passed down genetically huh?”</p><p>Tony barks out a sharp laugh. “Maybe you’re right Quentin. But at least I’m not so dumb as to bite the hand that feeds me.”</p><p>“That’s a lot of talk coming from someone leading a sinking ship. You can’t afford to lose your sous chef when you’re just coming off a Michelin star loss.” Quentin looks smug. Tony has a strong urge to punch it off his face. Would have if he didn’t value his hands so much for his craft. Frankly, it would be doing himself a disservice if he broke his fist on Quentin’s ugly mug.</p><p>“You wanna know something about me Quentin?” Tony says conversationally. “I can’t stand being told what I can or can’t do. You know, it’s just too bad that we’ve actually started to gain some understanding of each other. Almost a shame I have to let you go now.” Tony bares his teeth in an unconvincing smile.</p><p>Quentin sputters. “You -- you --”</p><p>“If anyone else has a problem with me, you know where the door is,” Tony cuts him off abruptly, nodding towards the exit. In for a penny, in for a pound apparently.</p><p>Quentin looks around desperately, trying to gather some support. No one meets his eyes, gazes averted as people stare at the floor or off to the side. Flustered, Quentin throws down his toque in an entirely overly dramatic fit of fury and grabs his knife roll before storming off, blustering angrily to himself all the way.</p><p>“Well?” Tony turns back to survey the rest of the kitchen staff. No one says anything. By this point, William has slunk back to his station, unsuccessfully trying to hide himself behind one of his stock pots.</p><p>“Alright, get back to work then,” Tony picks up his towel again and stuffs it back in his apron, ignoring the residual tension left in the room.</p><p>“Yes, Chef!” everyone choruses, and the kitchen returns to its normal flurry of activity.</p><p>Pepper finds him once everyone else has clocked out for the night.</p><p>“Anything you want to tell me?” she asks, arching her eyebrow at him pointedly.</p><p>Tony hums noncommittally from where he’s been steadily making his way through one of the vintages that Howard had been saving for special occasions. This definitely counted as a special occasion. Tony purposefully ignores the looming elephant in the room as he takes another sip from his wine glass. Idly, he wonders whether he should just do away with the glass entirely. He’s entirely too tempted by the thought of how Howard would react to him chugging down one of his five thousand dollar bottles of wine like it was tap water. Probably roll over in his grave. Tony pauses, considering.</p><p>“Tony!” Pepper snaps exasperatedly.</p><p>“What, Pep?” he asks innocently.  “A man can’t enjoy a glass of wine at night?”</p><p>Pepper looks like she wants to say something in response to that as she eyes just how little of the bottle is left, but visibly restrains herself.</p><p>“Tony,” she continues, “can you tell me why I had to hear that you had fired your sous chef a week before one of our busiest nights of the year through waitstaff gossip of all things?” Privately, Tony thinks that Pepper sounds like she doesn’t know whether to be more annoyed by the fact that he had fired Quentin or that she hadn’t been told in advance. Outwardly, he doesn’t say that since he likes his body organs intact and very much where they are right now, and Pepper is wearing threateningly high stilettos. How, he’s not quite sure, but he chalks it up as yet another one of her superhuman abilities.</p><p>“It was just a spur of the moment decision,” Tony says instead, lazily swirling his glass before he takes another sip. Then he registers what she said. “Oh, is Mother’s Day weekend coming up? I didn’t realize it was so soon. Eh, we can promote William to sous and put Doug on Sauce. He’s been trained long enough.” He waves away her concerns.</p><p>The vein on the side of Pepper’s forehead throbs for a second before she takes a deep breath, her face softening. “Tony, I’m worried about you. You haven’t been yourself since you got that call from Chef Stane.”</p><p>“Pepper, Pepper, Pepper,” Tony sighs. “That’s all water under the bridge now. Ancient history. It was always Howard’s star anyways, so it’s not like it was a surprise.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone at the last part. From the concern in Pepper’s expression, it doesn’t look like he had succeeded.</p><p>“We don’t need to make any last-minute kitchen changes,” she changes tack instead. “I’ve made some calls and have someone coming in as your new sous chef.”</p><p>“What?” Tony stands up quickly, his drink sloshing out onto his chef whites. He barely registers the rapidly spreading claret red turning his jacket and pants into a bloody crime scene. “Why am I just hearing about this? Did you even run this by Obie yet?” Tony is fully aware of and purposefully ignoring his hypocrisy right now. He’s head chef, he has to have some benefits alright.</p><p>“Come on Tony, do you think I’d even be bringing this up if I didn’t have Chef Stane’s approval?” Pepper gives him an unimpressed look. “And somehow, I don’t think you’ll have any objections.”</p><p>Tony just snorts dubiously.</p>
<hr/><p>So Tony is wrong, as always. And Pepper is right, as always.</p><p>“Tony!” Rhodey surprises him as he’s coming out of the restaurant the next day.</p><p>“Rhodey?!” Tony manages to squawk out in shock before he’s swept up into one of Rhodey’s legendary bear hugs. It’s like a Pavlovian response at this point, ingrained into his subconsciousness after many, many sleepless nights in college and Rhodey’s solid, caffeine-bearing presence throughout, bless his soul. Tony relaxes instantly, the stress he had only been half aware of melting off his shoulders.</p><p>“I called in the big guns,” Pepper informs him, coming from behind to greet Rhodey with a brief smile and embrace.</p><p>“You sure manage to get yourself into some messes, huh Tones,” Rhodey says fondly. “Doesn’t seem like that much has changed about you at least, <i>Chef</i>,” he teases.</p><p>“Aw honey bear, you wouldn’t have me any other way,” Tony shoots back instantly, falling into the familiar banter with ease. Then the realization hits. “Wait, you’re my new sous? Last I heard, you were making waves on the West coast.”</p><p>“Not like it’s that hard when the last big wave of culinary innovation there was the ‘discovery’ of the avocado,” Rhodey dismisses, waving away the recognition like he hadn’t been tapped by several reputable culinary magazines as the person most-likely to be the next chef de cuisine at the French Laundry.</p><p>A swell of emotion makes Tony’s throat close up. “Thanks Rhodey,” he manages eventually, looking away and blinking rapidly.</p><p>Rhodey’s hand reaches out to pat Tony’s shoulder comfortingly once, twice, before retreating. As Rhodey turns to survey the restaurant with an appraising eye, Pepper steps up to give him a quick walk-through of the front of Ferrum. Their familiar voices wash over him and...it’s nice. It’s really, really nice. For the first time in a long while, Tony feels like he can come up to breathe, like the heavy weight that had settled over him and locked the stress deep into his bones was finally loosening.</p>
<hr/><p>While Rhodey’s quick onboarding and years of culinary experience were a godsend in easing the abrupt transition of fitting a new sous chef into the kitchen dynamic, even Rhodey’s best efforts fell short of being able to repair the hit that kitchen morale took after Quentin had left. At this point, they’re hemorrhaging a chef de partie once every few weeks and frankly there’s only so lean a service they can run before their menu goes from focused minimalist to starving artist.</p><p>Tony’s rotating between stations and filling the gap his boucher had left when Pepper rapidly strides in while he’s elbows deep in lamb carcass. “Chef, a diner requested to speak with the chef.”</p><p>“Just give ‘em the usual response, Pep,” Tony responds distractedly as he focuses on rapidly frenching the rack of lamb in front of him.</p><p>“It’s Clint Barton from <i>Hawkeye</i>,” she says, and okay it’s not like it’s every day that an editor-in-chief from a hit international food documentary series walks in their doors, but at this point, they’re barely managing to stay on top of the tickets coming in with the number of kitchen staff they have and the dinner rush hasn’t even fully hit yet.</p><p>“And that means <i>what</i> exactly to me?” Tony emphasizes his question, sliding his boning knife along the seam of fat and muscle and separating the thick cap of fat from the rack with a sharp pull.</p><p>Pepper arches an unimpressed brow. “It means, you’ll want to go out there and schmooze like Escoffier just walked through the door.”</p><p>“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m kinda occupied over here right now Pepper,” Tony gestures with his non-knife wielding hand.</p><p>“Oh for...Peter!” Pepper barks, the crisp command stopping the fresh-faced commis in his path like a deer in headlights. “How long have you been on Meat?” Peter opens his mouth to respond and she cuts him off. “Never mind, you should know how to french a rack of lamb by now. Here, take over.”</p><p>And with that, Tony finds himself divested of his boning knife and gloves, hustled out of the barely-contained chaos of the kitchen and into the quiet elegance of the front of house. Pepper practically drags him over to the appropriate table.</p><p>“Chef Barton, may I introduce you to our chef de cuisine, Chef Tony Stark,” Pepper gestures to them both. “I’ll leave you two to chat.”</p><p>As Pepper gracefully makes her way back to the entrance, Tony pastes on his fixed, media smile with a slight upturn of his lips as he reaches out his hand to shake.</p><p>“Pleasure to meet you, Chef,” Tony says, the practiced words falling easily from his mouth. “How was your meal?”</p><p>Clint meets him halfway, shaking his hand and pumping it up and down with vigor. “No, honestly the pleasure is all mine. Man, when I saw the review that came out in the <i>Times</i>, I thought for sure my meal here would be a dud, which to be fair, most of it was. I mean, how many times do I see a rehash of some pretty plates with nice ingredients that I could’ve eaten anywhere else. But that app, mmm, reminded me of why I first got into food in the first place, like that <i>Ratatouille</i> moment all over again.” Like that wasn’t enough, Clint kisses his fingers like he’s some Italian stereotype.</p><p>Tony wonders whether or not he should be offended by the deluge of words spewing out of the stocky, blonde-haired man. “I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed the appetizer Chef Barton, I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments to our entremetier.”</p><p>“I think it’s one of the few times that I’ve had legitimate Italian culatello in the States, and that pairing, absolutely genius,” Clint takes a breath to continue, but Tony cuts him off.</p><p>“The culatello?” he asks, to clarify that he hadn’t misheard.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, isn’t that what I just said?” Clint says.</p><p>“Hah!” Tony exclaims abruptly, causing the other man to jolt in shock at the unexpected outburst. “I told Obie it would be a hit, what did I say?” He mutters the last part to himself triumphantly.</p><p>“Oh man, that was your dish?” Clint interjects. “What happened with the rest of the menu? It comes across like some 80-year old man at the country club.”</p><p>Ironically, the other man’s description was spot-on in personifying Howard in a sentence.</p><p>“We’re still in the process of changing up our menu concept at this time,” Tony deflects. “Thank you for the feedback at this stage, we’ll definitely take that into consideration.”</p><p>“You know what would be even more helpful of me?” Clint nods decisively, like he’s already made some momentous decision. Tony has a bad feeling about this, confirmed by Clint’s next words. “Heard through the grapevine you’re down a boucher -- how’s about I stay around for a few months? Not like you’ll find anyone with as much experience as me on this short notice and I can help with the menu development.”</p><p>Utterly uncharacteristically of him, Tony finds himself at a loss for words, gaping.</p><p>Clint notices and shrugs one shoulder. “Eh, we’ve got a bunch of editing to finish-up for the documentary, so it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do right now. Plus, I get to chase down the first culinary inspiration I’ve found in waaay too long. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt inspired by anything I’ve eaten? Way too long. I have to milk this as much as I can. And you’re down a chef de partie, so it’s a win-win.”</p><p>“Okay, you know what?” Tony rubs his forehead tiredly. “It’s too early into service to deal with this shit. You’re hired. Let Pepper know on the way out and she’ll get you set-up with the paperwork. Show up at 2 tomorrow. Don’t be late.”</p><p>With that, Tony spins on his heel and heads back into the kitchen. And to think that the dinner rush hasn’t even started yet. Suddenly, Tony regrets his life decisions leading up to this moment.</p>
<hr/><p>Surprisingly, it’s not as much of a clusterfuck as Tony had imagined.</p><p>Clint and Rhodey get along like a house on fire and once Clint actually settles down to work, he’s meticulous and focused, his hands confidently slicing and butchering like he was born with a butcher knife in one hand and a boning knife in the other.</p><p>And despite all his bluster and talk, Clint falls in line easily in the kitchen. Oh sure, he’ll sass Tony, but frankly Tony thinks that’s just who Clint is and he’d be the biggest hypocrite in the world if that actually bothered him. Instead, Clint listens to him and doesn’t hesitate to tell Tony when he thinks he’s full of shit, which is more than he can say for his other chefs de partie who will smile and nod to his face, but then turn around and carry on with whatever they were doing before like his words had went in one ear and out the other.</p><p>“Why don’t you just fire them and hire some new chefs de partie?” Clint asks randomly one day, popping a grape into his mouth as they’re going over a list of new meat suppliers to compare and contrast options.</p><p>“The man has a point,” Rhodey agrees, not looking up from where he’s taking inventory of their prep area and coolers.</p><p>“That is,” Tony starts before he pauses, considering. “That is an excellent idea actually.”</p><p>“You don’t need to sound so shocked,” Clint says.</p><p>“Coming from you birdbrain, I’m floored,” Tony retorts. “And since I’m head chef, I will hereby delegate to you the task of telling Pepper that we need to hire at least one, two, three, no five chefs de partie.” At Clint’s resulting horrified expression, Tony settles back into his chair with an air of satisfied contentment.</p><p>In the end, Tony, Rhodey and Clint flip through their metaphorical rolodexes to narrow down a short list of potential candidates because none of them have the guts to straight-up tell Pepper that they plan to pull another Quentin five times over.</p><p>For their first interview, Clint’s candidate for poissonniere strides into the kitchen with her face perfectly made-up, hair pulled back neatly in an elegant chignon. Natasha butterflies and fillets pike like someone else would tie their shoes, perfunctory and efficient like she’s done it a thousand times. Which, for all Tony knows, she has. Her knife skills are excellent, with not an extra movement wasted as she easily removes the Y bones. Lifting up the strip of bones to examine, Natasha’s mouth curls up in sharp satisfaction at the minimal amount of meat left clinging to the strip.</p><p>Rhodey whistles, impressed. They don’t bother interviewing anyone else and Tony would be almost annoyed at the visible smugness Clint was emanating if Natasha weren’t so damned good at her job.</p><p>They actually conduct the patissier interviews as planned, although if Tony has to force himself to eat another saccharine macaron or tooth-cringingly sweet dense chocolate cake, he will literally vomit sugar and buttercream.</p><p>Rhodey, who never had much of a sweet tooth to begin with, looks almost green around the gills, poor guy. Even Clint, who had a self-proclaimed sweet tooth, was beginning to slow down, his previous enthusiasm flagging.</p><p>By the end of the day, Tony doesn’t have very high hopes pinned on the last candidate, Bruce Banner. Sure his CV had read as impressive enough, more than if Tony was being honest, but it’s also relatively well-known in certain circles that the mild-mannered man could completely transform into a massive hulk of rage if triggered. Metaphorically speaking, of course.</p><p>Bruce has large hands, littered with burn scars that range from those faded white with age to ones new enough that the skin still looks shiny. The contrast is almost comical when Bruce uses those hands to spin delicate sugar out into gossamer-thin strands and carefully decorate a tray of pastel petits fours. Tony’s sure that if he got out a ruler and measured, each petit four would come out to the exact same size with military precision.</p><p>Bruce offers them the selection of confectionery with a quietly murmured <i>bon appetit</i>. Tony bites into his fourth macaron of the day with no small degree of trepidation, letting out a surprised moan of delight when the flavor lightly <i>melts</i> in his mouth in a citrusy cloud of lemon. The slight tang cuts through the sickly sweetness from past tastings coating his palate.</p><p>Clint is shoveling pastries into his gaping maw like he hadn’t already consumed half his body weight in sweets today and Tony even spots Rhodey discreetly pocketing an extra choux bun when he thinks no one’s looking.</p><p>Needless to say, they hire Bruce on the spot.</p><p>Strangely enough, the answer comes from their newly-hired friturier Thor. As soon as he hears Tony mention off-handedly how difficult it’s been to find a decently-experienced, <i>sane</i> rotisseur (sane being the most important criteria here), he’s out the door, leaving Tony bewilderedly staring at Thor’s apron that had somehow appeared in his hands.</p><p>“Chef, I have brought with me your new rotisseur!” Thor booms enthusiastically, coming in half an hour later, dragging behind him a lean, dark-haired man who’s hissing and snarling like he’s about to legitimately murder Thor in Tony’s kitchen. Tony takes a moment to feel faint over the amount of bleach it would take to scrub his floors clean after such an event. Let alone the re-certification hassle.</p><p>“Thor, I swear to the Allfather, I will <i>gut</i> you and <i>marinate</i> you in lye and then <i>eat</i> you like Mother’s lutefisk,” Thor’s presumable brother spits out darkly. “Get your oafish hands <i>off me</i>.”</p><p>Somehow, despite the graphic and violent threats against his person, Thor is undeterred.</p><p>“Chef, my brother is well-known in our home country for his numerous and varied culinary talents,” Thor proclaims confidently. “He is particularly renowned for his slow-cooked meats. Truly, in this area, you will find that Loki has no equal.”</p><p>“Uh, Thor, listen buddy,” Tony darts a quick glance at the resentful man being practically crushed under Thor’s bulging arm, “can we talk privately for a minute here?”</p><p>“Don’t bother, Stark,” Loki says stiffly. “I will save both of us time here and graciously decline your <i>generous</i> offer.” Loki’s tone isn’t the least bit gracious by any stretch of the imagination and he loftily enunciates each word, giving off an air like he’s a lord speaking to a lowly peasant despite his current undignified position.</p><p>It immediately rubs Tony the wrong way. If anything, <i>Tony</i> is the lord of this kitchen and Loki the mere peasant who’s come groveling for a job.</p><p>“Oh you don’t have to worry about that Lolo,” Tony snarks back. “While I’m sure you were <i>quite</i> the sensation in… where was it again? Norway? Well anyways, I’m not sure you would be the right <i>fit</i> for Ferrum. We do have a different set of <i>standards</i> here after all.” Tony makes sure to use his best Ivy League accent, condescension dripping off every syllable.</p><p>Tony watches with unrestrained delight as Loki visibly bristles at that, shoving Thor’s arm off his shoulder.</p><p>“Thor, lend me your knives,” Loki all but demands, rolling up his sleeves and tying his hair back.</p><p>“Of course brother, you have only but to ask,” Thor replies easily, proffering his knife roll. Almost too easily. Tony’s eyes narrow as he spots the flash of smug satisfaction in Thor’s expression before Thor manages to hide under his typical visage of placid good humor. </p><p>With a sinking feeling in his gut, Tony gets the sense that he and Loki have both just been masterfully played.</p><p>Tony’s suspicions are confirmed when Rhodey takes one sip of the Norwegian stew Loki prepares and <i>freezes</i>. Slowly, he lowers the spoon from his mouth and turns to Tony.</p><p>“Tony, I don’t know who the hell this man is, but if you don’t hire him now, I’ll tell Pepper what <i>really</i> happened last Fourth of July.”</p><p>Tony sputters. “Rhodey! I thought you were on my side.”</p><p>“You know I’m on your side Tones, which is why I’m making this executive decision for us.” Without looking, Rhodey sharply raps Clint’s questing hand with his tasting spoon.</p><p>“Hey!” Clint retracts his hand. “Watch the merchandise.” He rubs his reddened hand consolingly.</p><p>“Think Chef did you a favor there,” Natasha snorts. “Anything would be an improvement at this stage.”</p><p>Nat,” Clint whines.</p><p>“Anyways,” Tony cuts in. “Ignoring the side show over there, when it comes down to it, <i>I’m</i> head chef around here, so I’m going to have to cut this lovely little rendez-vous short.”</p><p>“Tony,” Rhodey says almost reproachfully.</p><p>“Can it, honey bear, I don’t want to hear anything that might convince me otherwise.” Tony is strong, he is. Even when he’s faced with four sets of pleading, puppy-dog eyes, he’s stone cold, he’s, he’s...crumbling like wet cardboard. Damn.</p><p>At the time, Tony wasn’t totally convinced that the absolute meltdown he had had (according to Pepper at least, Tony wouldn’t go quite so far as to call it a meltdown) and the resulting, slapped-together kitchen staff they had put together in a <i>week</i> would be anything more than a temporary stopgap that would last them through the next few months.</p><p>It takes him a few months to realize that they have something special together, that there’s a particular kind of magic in their kitchen and that cooking together feels as natural as <i>breathing</i>.</p><p>It takes him about a year to realize that it’s the best thing that could have ever happened to him, and that together they can take Ferrum to new heights that Howard could have never even imagined.</p>
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